Umbra · you are the only light

Umbra

Nothing here is missing. It is only unlit.

You arrive after dark, and the valley has folded itself away. There is no moon tonight — there is only the small warm coin of light you carry, and the ground agrees to exist wherever you hold it.

Move it slowly. The land is shy.

West of the fence the earth remembers a path, worn a hand's-breadth below the grass. Follow it and the ridgeline stands up beside you, throwing a long shadow that swings as your lamp swings, the way a stranger's shadow leans away from a passing car.

The house is here. It was always here — a low roof, one lit window the colour of an ember, the door left on the latch for whoever came last. You simply had not shone on it yet.

Read it while you can. Move on, and the dark closes politely behind you, and the sentence you just finished is a rumour again.

This is how the valley keeps its shape: not all at once, but only, ever, in the little circle of your attention. You are not looking at Umbra. You are the reason it is here.

You are seeing the fully-lit fallback because JavaScript is off or your system requests reduced motion. With motion enabled, Umbra is pitch black and reveals itself only under a lantern that follows your cursor. — How it was made · Index